


Getting Used to the Pain

by HazelNMae



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: A little angst, F/M, a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 07:08:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelNMae/pseuds/HazelNMae
Summary: Written for a friend on the prompt, "We are all used to some kind of pain."





	Getting Used to the Pain

You’d known Polly Gray as long as you could remember. Your mother passed away when you were young and your father looked to her best friend Polly for advice raising his daughters. You lived next door and she often invited you and your younger sister over for tea and biscuits, using the opportunity to teach you important life lessons a girl only learns from a maternal figure. You didn’t realize at the time what she was doing, but as you grew a little older and experienced more of the mean streets of Birmingham, you looked back on those moments with fondness and gratitude. You’d forever be grateful to Polly for watching over you and providing you with advice when you needed it most.

Because of your relationship with their aunt, you were also familiar with the Shelby boys. You were just a year younger than Arthur, but didn’t know him from school. He’d dropped out when his mother got sick to help tend to the family. You knew the younger brothers, but didn’t spend much time with them. Tommy always seemed too cerebral and John was too much of a cutup. 

In fact, your friendship with Arthur only really took shape after his younger brother John was killed. You ran into him in a pub in town as he attempted to drown his sorrows. You knew the loss he was experiencing, having lost your husband in the war a few years prior. 

You’d been engaged for three months but rushed into a marriage after he’d been drafted. He didn’t want to go off to war wondering if you’d be home when he returned and you were more than happy to call him your husband while you sat around missing him. 

You were young and naive and neither of you expected it to end the way it did.

But like so many others, you found yourself a young widow, barely making ends meet, looking for anything in a city that had nothing to give.

And that’s when you found Arthur.

You talked for hours that night about the war, about your childhoods, about your families, and about your loss. You felt a kinship with Arthur that you hadn’t realized you’d been seeking. You became fast friends as he quickly reintroduced you to the family. You were glad to see Polly again, to get to know the adult versions of the children you’d known so long ago, and to find some semblance of familiarity among what had become a foreign city.

Tommy often teased his brother about you, never quite able to understand how the two of you could be only friends. The truth was you’d often thought of Arthur in another way, in a romantic way, but he’d never given you any indication he may reciprocate, so you chose to keep your feelings to yourself. 

And all of this seemed manageable, okay, even, until you received the package.

After your husband died, you’d never received any of his things. You had the telegram, of course, but the BAF hadn’t so much as sent a stitch of clothing, dogtags, medals, nothing. 

But now, years after his death, you received a small parcel on your doorstep. Your heart sank when you opened it and found his gold wedding band. You’d both had them inscribed, his with your name and your wedding date, which must have allowed whoever found it to track you down.

You clutched the ring to your chest as you panicked for air. Grasping for your keys and coat, you fumbled through the hallway and out of the door running in a full sprint toward nothing in particular. A few moments later, you found yourself on Arthur’s doorstep.

He’d seen you approach from the window and opened the door before you could even raise your hand to knock. You couldn’t talk through the heaving sobs, but that was okay–Arthur didn’t need an explanation. He simply wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into the house, and rocked you slowly until your breathing settled and you were able to force out the words you’d been searching to find. 

You held out the ring and told him what had happened. You watched the pain fill his face. Arthur had always had more empathy than anyone you’d ever met–able to feel the pain others experienced in such a real way that it sometimes frightened you. You’d never met a man who could feel so intensely. And certainly never knew one so comfortable talking about his feelings.

He poured you both a cup of tea but sat a small flask on the table between you, knowing it’s what you wanted.

“I’m starting to forget what he looks like,” you said softly, pouring a bit of whiskey into your cup. “It’s not something I ever wanted to get used to.”

Arthur stretched his arm across the table and took your hand in his own. He rubbed the back of your hand slowly with his thumb as he mulled over the right thing to say.

“We are all used to some kind of pain,” he finally offered. 

You tried to smile, but couldn’t quite force it out.

Then Arthur stood and moved around the table. He knelt beside you and lift your chin so you were looking into his eyes.

“The thing is,” he continued, “Is that we let ourselves feel it.”

You placed your small hand on his cheek and watched as his eyes studied your face. You felt, in that moment, as if he saw you–truly saw you–in a way no one else ever had. You loved your husband, and missed him dearly, but in that moment, you longed for something more from Arthur.

You leaned in, placing your forehead to his. Your hand fell to his neck.

And that’s when you felt it. 

Arthur’s pulse was racing. 

He swallowed, as if he knew you’d noticed and was trying to hide it.

“(Y/N),” he said softly. 

But you stopped him there with a kiss so forceful he fell from his crouched position to a fully seated one flat on his ass.

You slid off the chair and into his lap, straddling him on the floor. Your lips fought his for control of the kiss but as his hands fell to your hips, you relented that control, letting him part your lips with his tongue and pull you in closer. 

You rocked your hips against him and he began to breathe deeply through his nose, fighting for air. 

You sat back, suddenly self-conscious that he may not have wanted this at all–that you may have totally misread the situation.

“The fuck are you doing, (Y/N)?” he asked.

“Oh shit, Arthur, I’m so sorry,” you covered your face and began to scramble, blinded by your own hands, to get to your feet.

But Arthur pulled you back down, swiftly, and jerked your hands away so he could look at you.

“I mean, why’d you stop?” He asked now. “Don’t you know how long I’ve waited for this? For you to be ready?”

You smiled, unable to control it, and pressed yourself into him again. Your lips crashed against his and you quickly regained the rhythm you’d lost. You pushed his shoulders to the ground and held yourself over him.

“Arthur, sweetheart, I think I’ve got an idea,” you said, before continuing what you’d started.


End file.
